


The Consent of the Governed

by InsominiacArrest



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Breathplay, Enthusiastic Consent, F/F, History, Nyotalia, Post-Boston Tea Party, Pre-American revolution tensions, Punitive Acts, Smut, Voyeurism, a tag I never thought I'd use, historical lesbian porn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-04
Updated: 2015-09-04
Packaged: 2018-04-18 20:39:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,216
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4719662
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/InsominiacArrest/pseuds/InsominiacArrest
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Between the Punitive Acts and the cusp revolution America and England spend a night together. America is a mess of defiance and obedience, a garden of complicated emotions as England tries to reconnect with a seething daughter colony.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Consent of the Governed

**Author's Note:**

> I found this laying around my computer and found it strangely compelling. IDK what kind of audience there is for historical lesbian sex, but here it is.

Boston, 1774

America was sweaty and her scalp itched. How men wore these all the time was beyond her, how anyone did was astounding. Of course, many of their heads were shaved for that very purpose, and she’d rather eat ten leeches in a row.

The only thing America knew was she wanted to remove her powdered white wig the second she got indoors. She took the steps to her little room two at a time, they creaked obnoxiously loud in the mid sized Boston home. She hoped the downstairs family didn’t mind the noise, but she was too much a hurry to remove the three layers of clothing she was fitted in to slow down.

She opened the door routinely, only to jump violently at the unexpected contents of the room, a refined women in a military suit sitting on America’s plush blue chair. She scowled.

“England!” The blonde women looked up from what was most likely a cup of tea, nonplussed. The only sign she was more unamused than usual being a slight crease in her eye, and a firmly clenched jaw line. Which made sense given the circumstance.

“What are you doing here?” America tries to sound less nervous and more stern than she feels.

England smoothed out her white and red military outfit, standing up casually and not in any hurry to engage with America.

“I was in the West Indies. I thought I’d drop by for a visit.” She pauses, “given the _unrest_ I’ve heard about in this region I thought it was about time.” Her eyes narrow even further, she approached America like a stilted swan, slowly, gracefully, yet ready to peck her in the face at any second. America sweats.

“The real question is,” she says, “what are you doing here?”

America steals herself, she was not going to curl up like a little girl being scolded.

“There happens to be Warships in one of my largest trading ports, _m’am_.” She grits her teeth, “the trade in one of my largest ports is completely halted.” She reinforces her point.

England stalks around her like she’s observing some sort of exotic animal and it’s various reactions when you prod it.

“Do you know what this will do to my economy?” She seethes.

“I do know. That’s exactly the point.” She responds shortly, “the riots lost the Empire £9,659 pounds, if you’ve forgotten. Which justifies” she leaned in to speak into America’s ear, “the warships in your port.”

America shivers, mostly from anger, and a little from something else. She can feel England grin like a jackal behind her.

“No. It doesn’t.” America growls through clenched teeth, “it was only a handful of people involved! The rest of Boston is innocent.”

“It’s called collective punishment. And the whole issue can be resolved once you collectively pay me back. No. Fuss.”

“No fuss.” America’s repeats, fist clenched, she wants to throttle her, she can see it now, her hands around the Empires neck as she gasps for air. The thought is fleeting.

“Yes.” she halts, America can feel the ice of her glare heat up the back of her neck, “by the way America. You weren’t there by chance? You’re one of the,” she searches for the word, “innocent?” England walks back up in front of her, far too close, and eyes hard and unforgiving, perhaps she is seething under the surface as well, though if she is, she doesn’t show it.

“No. I wasn’t there.” And it’s true, America was off in one of her northern borders facilitating trade, which seems silly considering the circumstance. God knows she’s starting to wish she had been involved.

There had been stirrings under the surface of resistance, and something else, but they were few, and America wasn’t that interested. Now however, people were taking notice, herself included.

England strolls back in front of her and physically relaxes at the response, a dim smile graces her lips, she seems to accept that answer.

“Good. I was starting to worry from the way you were dressed.” She eyes her up and down, “did you mean to dress like a man?”

“Uh…” This was the actual hot water, America had gone to visit some of the members of a group calling themselves some sort of liberation front. Like she said, she was interested.

England laughs, “they don’t recognize you do they?”

America averts her eyes and blushes, trying to keep the pout off of her face, they don’t recognize her. England grabs her cheeks, and angles her face towards her, the shorter women regarding her affectionately, mockingly.

“Don’t worry love,” she kisses her cheek, “you don’t need to be recognized to be a true entity. Especially with a higher governing body.”

America’s frown deepens, she turns coldly walking to the dresser to remove the man’s wig. It’s true as a female nation it is harder to be recognized, they want a man to represent them so they say, and more than that… Her people didn’t exactly think of themselves as one united body, much less a nation.

In order to talk to anyone important she had to dress like a man, and even act like a human, it was embarrassing. Older nations like England didn’t have to deal with this.

“It takes awhile for the people to recognize a nation,” England says from behind her as she removes her itchy wig, “but I assure you, you really don’t need it.”

She touches America’s back, making her jump a little.

“It’s a lot of work. Responsibility. Bloody even, and… you may do things you regret.”

Her voice is light, but distant as if she is thinking of far off things that no longer have to do with a little uppity colony. America listens attentively.

“Perhaps, I wouldn’t mind that.” She says just loud enough for England to hear. England doesn’t acknowledge it.

“Turn around.” America turns around obediently, sure to present a sour face when she stares down the Empire, England's gaze remains blank nonetheless, a polite smile taking her in.

“How have you been? Not too much contact with France I hope?” She asks, as if she really cares about how America is, she leaves her alone for decades and then shows up out of the blue just to get all up in her business! God.

“Well besides your soldiers climbing all over me, no representation and being treated like a criminal instead of a citizen, _just fine_.” She’ll be in her grave before she doesn’t at least be a little petulant to her mother colony. She started it.

“Are we going to go over this again?” England replies, sounding tired instead of angry, she straightens America’s jacket, “I have colonies all over the globe, we can’t give you all representation. I don’t know why you’d want it anyway. Furthermore, before you bring it up, taxes are high all over, including all British citizens. And they are not the ones to even start a costly war in the first place.” She gives America a pointed look.

“I was doing it in your name.” America murmurs bitterly before she can stop herself.

England seems pleased at that response, “I know. And as long as you pay me back for it, you can continue to carry that name freely. But that wasn’t what I asked.”

England smooths the front of America’s coat down again, America arches an eyebrow.

“I asked, _if you had too much contact with France_. No intrusions, am I correct?”

America blushes, caught off guard by the predatory look in England's eyes, and the insinuation behind her words.

“N-no, I barely see him.” She stutters out, “especially after the war.”

England grins, almost smugly.

“Good. Now let’s take these heavy clothes off. They don’t suit you.”

“Would he really do that?”

“Who?”

“France.”

England’s face is visited by a dark cloud, “you’d be surprised what that man would do to get revenge on me.” She then forces a smile, though most of them seem forced anyway, “let’s not dwell on it.”

England’s nimble hands had already worked their way through the most the buckles on the complex jacket, and then finally heaved it off her shoulders. England catches it and goes to hang it up on America’s door.

“There,” she turns back to her, clasping her shoulders, “that’s better.”

“Uh, thank you.”

England is treating her too nicely, she knows why, but honestly she doesn’t want to dwell on it either. It’s nice for a moment, gives her flashbacks of being a child.

Her nostalgia is cut short by an electric current that cuts through her spine, she gasps shallowly.

“Ah, just as I thought,” says England who for some reason had been probing her chest, “you’ve bound your chest.” she eyes her, “whatever for?”

America doesn’t meet her gaze, “didn’t want to take any chances.” She mumbles out a little incredulously.

“Humph. These things are terrible for you. Take your shirt off.”

America stared at her blankly, her face more than likely fire red, something stirring in her that would for sure to send her puritan forebearers into a meltdown. She absolutely doesn’t move.

England sighs, “fine then. Lift up your arms. I’ll do it myself.”

“I can- I can do it” America says coming out of her haze, “honestly England I’m old enough to undress myself.”

She lifts up her white fancy shirt to reveal her bound chest, she shivers from the sudden air on her skin.

“You don’t have to do this.” She says in a small voice.

“I will do it however I want, I’ve left you alone in this wilderness for far too long, I come back and you’re dressing like man.” Her hands were working there way up America’s sides until they reach the under arm. America holds her breath. England starts working her fingers, America has know Idea what she’s doing until she eyes the mischievous look on the older women’s face.

“Are you-?” America bursts out laughing as England is actually tickling her, “don’t!” She guffaws, “stop it!” She laughs gleefully as if she was a child again, instead of youthful and angry all the time.

She runs around the room until she is on the her blue chair again, trying to push England off as she tickles her breathless. Really breathless.

“Stop,” she wheezes, serious this time, “can’t breathe.” She gives another wheeze. England’s face shifts from teasing to reprimanding rather quickly.

“It’s those silly bandages.”

“You’re the one tickling me!”

“Stand up.”

America stands up, catching her breath, but still smiling faintly, even putting her arms out compliantly for England to get at gauze. England maneuvers the fabric skillfully, America does well in to not think of the implications of this until England brushes against one of her nipples.

They had been compressed for hours, and thus rightfully incredibly sore and sensitive, she can’t help gasp unwillingly at the brief contact.

England looks up at her, wide eyed and with some sort of concern

“Does it hurt?” She says tauntingly, suddenly placing her small hands directly over the problem area, America stifles a groan, settling for a guttural sound in the back of her throat. She opens her eyes, glaring at the offending party.

“Yes they, I mean it hurts” She manages to get out through a clenched jaw, “maybe you can remove your hand.” She implores with all the politeness of a charging rhinoceros gleaning to get out of a hunter’s trap.

But England isn’t the type to catch and release. She starts to massage the sensitive nubs, a little too harshly for America’s tastes, making rounding circles around the sore spots and then clamping down suddenly on the flesh unexpectedly. America gives out a full blown gasp.

“What are you doing?” America asks once the lights stop flashing behind her eyes.

“You are calling them the Punitive Acts I hear. In your land. I rather like that.” She says thoughtfully, twisting America’s nipples far too harshly to be playful, she embarrassingly let’s out another lewd noise. Some part of her brain tells her she can stop it if she wants, push England off of her, America is very strong after all, and she doesn’t.

“But this isn’t going to be a punishment.” She declares resolutely.

“What isn’t?” America finally implores through the haze of red filling her body and conscious mind.

“Get on the bed America.” She releases the taller woman’s chest, America stumbles. She scrambles over to her floral pattern bed and haphazardly onto it despite herself, and every other part of her brain saying this is odd, and wrong.

Shame at her own blatant shows of both arousal, and compliance stirs within her. She is supposed to be defiant- and then at least a little demure and pure for the sake of her heritage. She finds the other part of her is louder, and way too turned on to care. She resists touching herself nonetheless just awkwardly adjusting and readjusting her pants in hope of finding friction.

“Take those off.” England orders from across the room, watching her keenly while retrieving something from her bag.

America fumbles with her men’s pants unsuccessfully. The haze of lust blocking out the memory how she even managed to get in these in the first place.

England returns, she’s holding a book and a small vial.

“Have you been reading this?” She implores while holding a small book with the name ‘John Locke’ scrawled in gold across the side. England regards her with a hint of darkness, suspicion.

“Yeah.” She responds, her mind snapping back to attention for a moment, “he has a lot of good points.”

“Oh? And what is that?” She asks not at all in a threatening manner. Not at all.

America scoffs, giving her a cheeky grin over hooded eyes, she was never too busy to stick it to England (figuratively).

“Freedom. Liberty. Property. The right to rule should come from the consent of the governed,” America narrows her eyes, “not the other way around.”

Sure England might leave her wanting and maybe even a smack to the head, but America wasn’t going to pass up an opportunity to harass her. It wasn’t who she was.

England, to America’s disappointment, didn’t get angry or huffy. Getting England’s goat was fun, but facing her ire was a little different, she studies her face closely as she approaches, trying to gauge if she’s angry as hell or didn't even care.

England gets to the bed and then leans in, her face inches from America’s face, America leans backward until she falls flat on her back on the bed. England climbs onto it and hovers over her on all fours, her long blonde hair, having been released at some point, surrounds America’s head like a curtain. They end up trapped, eye to eye, in a cavern of yellow. A breathless dim connection in the afternoon sun.

A tension fills America's chest, the air fills like static and her like it's full of cotton balls. 

“Do you consent then?” She finally speaks, low and gravelly.

“What?” America breathes back, chest heaving a little, and England's calm over her obnoxious behavior unsettling her.

“Consent.” She repeats, petting America’s hair uncertainly now. “I’ve government you well...” Her hand trails down to America’s throat, and then her breasts her again, “you’re a very developed,” she cusps one brazenly, “young territory.”

“Well,” America starts not quite sure what to make of the sweetness in her voice, and the heat in her own pants, “I’m not, I’m not ungrateful.”

“Prove it.” She replies challengingly, when America doesn’t reply right away England leans down and gives a long open mouthed kiss, not quite gentle, but not quite biting either.

“You’ve always been beautiful you know.” She says, sending America’s head in a tizzy, England could be affectionate, but not in words like that.

“Th-thanks.” She replies, and kisses her back shortly, at a loss for words.

They kiss in a painful abyss of interlocking emotions, and uncertainties.

England’s hands ghost over her abdomen, and then play with the waistband of the pants she failed to get off. America gets her attention again with a hungry kiss, biting and nipping in a way she doubts is very skillful- she tries to make up for lack of experiences with enthusiasm. England returns to the kiss haltingly, while still using one hand to brush against her stomach and pelvis. America bucked up into her hand any time it wanders particularly low.

She gets incredibly excited to say the least. Existing as a teen for an excess of years had certainly messed with America’s head. Sticking her hand down her pants a multitude of times, dreaming of a tall and glamorous England in lace and pearls and power- certainly made her years of being a “daughter” colony very confusing. Now she had a chance to shamelessly live those fantasies.

Before America could really throw herself entirely on the older women, England grabbed her wrists which had settled around England’s neck and pinned them above her head. England’s eyes search America’s face.

“Tell me what you want.” She says sternly, suddenly cutting into the sexy atmosphere with something that sounded more like a demand than foreplay.

“You?” America replies questioningly.

“More.”

America can’t figure out what she’s getting at, but then it dawns on her, England sure did love her callbacks, jeez.

“take me. Okay? Govern me, whatever. I consent.” For now she thinks. America breathes out in what she hopes is a sexy way, and it seems to work.

England smirks, her muscles relaxing, to America’s chagrin she can tell England is thinking she’s won, but she decides to deal with that later.

“I’m going to reward you,” England says almost lovingly, patting her cheek.

“I’m definitely ready.” America replies, this time truthful. England releases her wrists and gets off of her.

“Um.” America says looking at her skeptically.

“Do you want to be the only one naked in the room?” She asks with much more of her usual snappishness.

“Do you want, do you want help?” She offers as England starts to disrobe from her heavy redcoat.

“No. Take your pants off this time.”

Oh yeah.

America manages it this time around, feeling pretty proud of herself until she realizes England’s removed most of her clothes in the time it took America to remove that one article.

“Lie back,” she commands. She lies back on the bed, her head finding the pillows.

“Are you, uh, going to take off the rest of your clothes?” America asks eyeing England’s undergarments which still cover her breasts and pelvis. Plus America is feeling particularly exposed as the only one in the room with her ‘vital regions’ uncovered.

“No.” She responds astutely, “now spread your legs.”

America flushes at the words. She wonders if she’ll ever stop doing that.

“Spread them.” She repeats herself, more sternly.

America spreads her legs, looking deliberately up at the ceiling while she does. England intervened anyway and kicks her feet apart until America is shivering from the raw air on her nether-lands (no actual Netherlands included).

“Now. Touch yourself.”

“What?!” America exclaims indignantly. England arches an eyebrow at her.

“You, uh, said you’d take me.”

“I did. And I will have sex with you.” America sputters at the word, “but first, hands on yourself.”

America doesn’t move, England waits patiently. When did she get so aggressive? Her empire was only growing America supposed.

Her hands finally creep down to her lady parts, as her cheeks practically glow, she wouldn’t be lying if she said she was fully ready for some stimulation. As well isn’t a little more then stimulated from England watching her like that. Eyes focused and biting her lip slightly, a voyeur on America’s self-exploration.

She brought her hands down to her warmth, spreading the folds, and then padding over her clit, she gives out a breathy whine.

“Slower.” England orders. America isn’t quite sure what she means by that, but takes her hands away from her clit, and gracing over and then pinching her inner thigh.

“That’s it,” she encourages, “build up to it.”

She massages her inner pelvis, wrapping of her hands in the mess of curling yellow pubes on it and tugging slightly. She looks over at England who nods, and hooded eyes study her work, beyond biting her lip now, she’s even chewing on it lightly.

It suddenly clicked in America’s head that this was just a show. England wanted her to perform for her, she was getting off on it.

She closed her eyes, breathed in, and moved one hand up to her chest and moved the other down to her slit. Her chest was still bound by the gauze (why didn’t she get that off yet??), but her nipples were still hard as heck, she tweaked one while she stroked herself. Her hand traced her folds lightly and then roughly, she let her voice go.

A series of breathy moans wracked through her throat, she arched off the bed, throwing her head back as she did, and softly groaning. She hoped none of the family who lived beneath her were home.

Finally, as she got embarrassingly wet from her own slurry she inched a finger into herself, letting out a spectacular little cry of pleasure for pagentry’s sake.

“Don’t bother with that love, upward, upward.” England’s voice was husky and raw, America felt a little smug at the great nation responding to her.

She moved her hand upward fingering the rough bunch of nerves above her opening, she rubbed it why her hands penetrated in and out of her hole. She forgot about being watched and the riots and the taxes as she exactly got lost in her warmth and hand motion.

Her eyes screwed shut, back arching off the bed, and practically humping own her hand almost led to her own undoing. England interrupted, grabbing her by her waist, and promptly flipping her over, she was very strong for being a small women.

“Uh, what-t?” America articulated elegantly.

“I’m glad to see you learned to prepare yourself at some point.” Her words were flat, but her voice had the decency to at least be wobbly, giving away some arousal.

America scowled, “I was almost done there.”

She looked back at England defiantly from her position on her hands and knees.

England gave a pompous scoff, “not in the way I’ll have you come undone.”

The vision of strangling her once more entered America’s vision. The afternoon was young yet.

“Now, stay on your hands and knees until I tell you otherwise.”

America huffed, “okay, fine, do your thing.”

England, expectedly, didn’t like that tone, and started out rather roughly, running her thumb down the young girls slit carelessly, forcefully. She gasped nonetheless.

England then used her long and expert fingers to trail up and down the region, stimulating her clit for a brief beautiful moment and then moving down to her inner thigh. America wondered if she’s bring her tongue into the mix, because that sounded frankly very great.

She did however start to work her fingers into her. One little finger and then two thrusted slowly into her up to England's knuckle. America clenched and flexed around the foreign objects inside her, but then England hooked her finger in just the right way and America pushed back into them wanting more.

“Good girl. You’re a good girl, aren’t you?” England apparently liked dirty talk, “you’d take my whole fist in you if I tried wouldn’t you?” America squeaked, clenching her muscles, a little aroused at it, and pretty apprehensive about actually taking a whole fist. That’s a lot of hand.

“I’m not going to do that though. Leave you a little empty. A little good girl, who will beg me to fill her all the way, and I won’t.”

America is not wholly sure what England is talking about, but she is in full support of the lilt and coarseness of her voice, controlling the entire room with a commanding, devouring, tone. America grounds back down on her hand. She starts moving her hands faster in and out. There is some sort of lube on them the makes the process faster, which made America wonder if she had she been planning this from the beginning.

America tries to keep up with the pace and push back at the right times, keeping up the thrusts, her breathes starting to heave again. England’s hand comes around from behind her and grabs her chest again. Squeezing on the sensitive flesh, and then massaging the nipple in time with her own finger fucking. America starts to feel the heavy buildup of a climax in her gut, raising and then ebbing away with every painful gasp America has to take.

“Still can’t breath can you?” England taunts, grabbing on one of the fabric strings and pulling, America’s breath chokes at her throat, a lewd sound backing up the wheeze for air.

“You like that” She says, suddenly biting down on America’s shoulder hard while she continues to tighten the gauze.

“That I’ll take your breath away. Decided how much you can take,” her fingers move faster, less rhythmically, drilling into her harshly, “and then give you more anyway.”

America cry’s out with what little air she has left, she is ready to climax, she can feel it in every taught tendon in her body, and burning overstimulated appendages.

“Ask me. Ask me to let you.” England’s eyes are wild, spittle dripping down her lip, “ask me dammit!”

America isn’t sure is she’s humoring her, or begging her, but she manages to get out, “get i’ off. Lemme,” breathe, “lemme come, ah, England!”

England wrenches the binder loose and drills into the poor girl one more time. America swears she sees stars and stripes. Her lightheaded state and then the sudden beautiful sweet breathe flooding her lungs certainly added to the orgasm. America wasn’t sure if the spasms lasted for 30 seconds, or 30 minutes, but her next cognitive thought involved lying on her bed, twisted a bit in the duvet with England lying next to her petting her hair.

“How was that?” She smiles in serene way, reminding America of how she smiled at her when she was a kid and did something like a silly cartwheel or read something out loud. America wasn’t sure what to make of that.

“Good,” she replies simply, “really, really, good.” She’s not sure if she should thank her or something, a handshake or maybe a formal note? She sits up first of all.

“These have to go though,” America finally unwinds all of the gauze from off her chest, England helps, America sort of expects her to ask if pulling on it was okay or not. She doesn’t. She supposes she did cum during the stimulus.

America shivers now, feeling fully exposed, and snuggles under her heavy duvet despite the oppressive heat outside, England follows her under the covers a little deftly. She stares down at her.

“Those must have been very tight,” she says, cupping the other girls ample bosom.

“Um, yeah,” America replies, searching England’s face for jealousy or anger, the Empire is very flat, but appears more pleased with her development than not though. She is hers after all, America twitched uncomfortably under the thought as England inspects her.

“Yes, you’ve grown quite nicely.” She says, again with the sweet smile that’s unnerving. America shifts, making room for her so she can lie down next to her instead of loom down from above.

“Are you trying to....sleep?” She asks condescendingly, almost pouting.

“Yeah? Why not?” America replies, cause yeah, might as well sleep and preserve the nice memory before they ruin it by fighting.

“Ahem,” England suddenly shifts the covers off of them, and then sits primly on the side of the bed. America watches her nonplussed. Finally she does something, delicately removing her own underwear, and then fingering her shirt deliberating on its edges.

America looks at the discarded clothes, oh. Oh.

“You’re horny too!” She laughs, “I totally forgot!”

Now it’s England's turn to blush, “excuse me ladies don’t get horny, but,” she says pointedly, “we do get impatient. Get over here.”

America stopped guffawing as she swatted at her, and gestured she move.

“What?” America states, “on the floor?”

“Yes, get on with it.”

America doubted she actually had to do this on the floor, and a twinge of anger flares in her chest at the thought England just wants to see her like that.

“Bow to you, honestly... this floor is hard..” America complains under her breath but she complies nonetheless, let no one say she never gave back.

It is an understatement to say she was unsure of herself when she got down there, peering between England’s legs uncertainly. One: lady parts are weird looking, two: God she didn’t want to mess this up.

“Um, England” she says in a small voice, “I’ve never done this before.”

“I know that,” she snaps, America wilts and she adds more kindly, “it’s what makes you so attractive. Virgin land as they might say.”

America giggles at the word virgin, England rolls her eyes at her.

“Okay now, you know what feels good on you, so just start off slowly, use your tongue, and no teeth. Well alright some teeth, but not hard.”

America nods studiously, and then forges on ahead before she’s even done talking, she was after all someone you would not describe as “unenthusiastic” or “not up to a challenge.” And it well, was a challenge. She tried licking and circles, but England kept barking at her if she did something too off course.

The girl was so stiff too, she was an Empire, shouldn’t be commanding and in control like at the beginning? America was starting to get peeved.

“No. Not like that! You’re hopeless.” England growls for what feels like the sixth time. She sighs into the older women’s clit, wanting to scream at her that she was just too cold and stiff to enjoy anything even if it was a sex God himself slapping her tits. Not that America was a sex God. She was just getting frustrated in all the wrong ways, and you know what they say about Americans and frustrations… Nothing, there are no sayings about that, but she had business to attend to.

She rose up to meet her on eye level, placing her arms on either side of England's hips to trap her in.

“You’re going to make me do this myself! I suppose that only fits for your performance at it,” she huffs, “so much for daughter colony’s existing to serve the Mother nation.” She sputters out like an old women having a fit. Which, technically she was both, and doing just that.

“England,” America says calmly, “shut up.” The blonde goes slack jawed in fury, until her voice returns in full force,

“How dare! You fail at your instructions, and now this? You’re hopeless, maybe I should just sell you to France!” America would be perfectly happy to see England lose her composure in a tizzy she works herself into, but she has a job to do.

She grabs England’s wrists, much like did hers and easing her completely on her back on the bed, and moving to straddle her hips. All the while she splutters indignantly.

“If I’m going to do this for you,” America finally responds clearly and in her 'I’m being practical voice,’ “you’re going to have to relax, and,” she pauses for effect, grinning ear to ear, “let me do things my way.”

America can’t tell if the look on Englands face is arousal or pure lividness but she doesn’t wait to find out, directly moving to kiss the older women and caress her sides. Maybe she couldn’t “cunnilingus” or whatever yet, she at least knew how to kiss a little.

England doesn’t respond for a moment, America kissing her sweetly on the mouth, and her lying motionless staring up at the ceiling, America kisses her a little more firmly, hoping the sincerity behind it might avoid England going off on her. She doesn’t pull back or go off on her, the permanent crease in between her brow lessens, she closes her eyes and opens her mouth. America takes the reigns.

Her tongue dips into the older nations mouth, and her hands begin to wonder down her frame, she seems to let her, eyes closed lightly and not even making a sound. It felt weird to see her quite, and weirder to explore her bony shoulders, and long torso, like forbidden property.

She didn’t stop though, it felt vindicating, she kissed her harder, pushed her deeper into the bed, until she could make her breathless, noisy. She of course overestimated her own ability, and managed to clock their noses together forcefully.

“Ow!” America jerks back, “sorry!”

England laughs, like a real human being (or nation), America laughs back in response. England reaches up, yanking on the girls hair and engaging her in another chaste candied kiss.

It’s almost too much for America’s fluttering heart, soft affection where rage should be. But for just this one second she was going to do something for herself, and then payback England later.

She trails her hands down her sides, then to her back, grasping at the flesh of her ass until she wriggled under the clutch, biting her lip as she looks down on her.

America draws back, sitting on the bed beside her, admiring the older women with her sun-parched paleness and small frame.

She leans in to the engage England when the other woman is leaning her backwards, guiding the back of her head to the pillows.

“What are you doing?” America asks as England lays her down.

“Giving you a second chance.” She says gently.

America gives her a questioning look before England is straddling her and the idea’s click into place.

“Oohh.”

“Now.” She commands, “keep a constant pressure, draw the Abc’s, you do know those don’t you? Or anything you like. And finally. Take a deep breath.”  
America complies, and England abruptly sits on her face.

She thinks of cross stitch designs and draws those. One stitch at a time until England is actually giving huffy little gasps, raunchy coming from such a regulated mouth.

America’s mouth is growing numb, and the thrill of having such sway over the other nation waning when her eyes flutter shut and she starts to see green. Green rolling hills.

Her eyes fly open in bewilderment, she only finds England on top of her, sweating and riding her tongue as she violates her.

She closes her eyes again, a network of red string seems to form between them in her minds eye.

Hills, rolling green hills, pictures of flocks of sheep in wooden fences, trees that go on as far as the eye can see, dense and dark and hollow, people singing in church choirs, and early morning porridge.

She smiles through her work.

Then England as gasping, she picks up the pace, in a flustered hurry to finish her, you make your movements more sharp and dips her tongue deeper into the musk and bitterness.

When she closes your eyes, the green gives way to tumbling seas, ocean, ocean, ocean, suffocating, enchanting, true love if it went on forever and filled the earth.

England pulls her hair roughly, and she is calling out someone’s name.

But America is gasping too as the images start to strangle each other and morph together.

Blood, blood, fire, the city smoke, and ash as moths turn from white to black and London’s skyline is alive with the heartbeat of a grasping, gasping new life that hungers, and strives upward a brick at a time.

Power, fury, fear, the sun in her eyes while her outstretched hand draws gore and gold at it’s fingertips, and everything hurts, and the path to never feel afraid again is clear.

Tears form at the edges of America’s eyes, she’s panting, and she can feel herself shake in the bed. Her mouth is damp and the world is a swirl of blurry color before her.

England is still beside her, wiping away the liquid forming on her eyes.

“It’s okay dear.” She croons.

America jerks away from her in embarrassment. She shifts to the side of the bed as England spreads out besides her, apparently sated.

“England?” She finally asks as she observes her. She makes a sound that she heard her. “Will I ever be as strong as you?” It’s a whisper, a promise.

She climbs carefully under the covers of America’s bed, and America followed suit like following a feral beast into it’s cave.

"That's a rather abrupt question, but," England kisses America’s forehead maternally, “The answer is you simply won’t ever need to be.”

America looks out the window.

“That’s what you think.” Her throat hurts, and England doesn't seem to hear her, not that she’d been listening in a long while.

England curls up next to her, and a garden of different emotions overtakes America, a gaping hole of loss and certainty keeps her awake, staring at the ceiling and dreaming England’s dreams.

**Author's Note:**

> The event: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Boston_Port_Act  
> Don’t say fanfiction never taught you anything.
> 
> inrl America I think should have been portrayed as much more pissed off, but I guess this version might be still leaning towards loyalist?


End file.
